


Drive

by lategoodbye



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boredom is taking its toll on Morse when a body is found in the boot of an abandoned car. Every piece of evidence points towards his former mentor at Lonsdale College, but Morse refuses to believe that the man could be capable of murder. Desperate to find out the truth before his colleagues draw their own conclusions, Morse must tread the fine line between Oxford's Town and Gown - only this time he doesn't have Thursday to watch his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a proper whodunnit. I've got a finished outline. Now all that's left for me to do, is to write things down (and maybe change the title because ugh), so please bear with me if chapter updates won't be coming weekly.
> 
> Many thanks to Beth for being an amazing beta, and to Rose for being an excellent creative consultant.
> 
> EDITED TO ADD: I decided to rewrite parts of the first two chapters so they now conform to the canon that series 2 gave us. If you come across any other inconsistencies please let me know.

There was no mention of this in any of his handbooks, Police Constable Heydon thought miserably as he wiped his clammy forehead on the crumpled white handkerchief his wife had taken great care to iron only yesterday, just before supper. Cold leftovers they'd had. Roast beef and thin slices of home-made white bread. The very thought made Heydon's stomach turn again. Left arm outstretched, he leaned heavily against the trunk of one of the small ash trees by the road and looked at the mess he'd left in the undergrowth. Gone was the none too well-hidden pride and excitement of being the first police officer on the scene. Granted, the fire brigade had been there before him, but in the light of routine and professionalism neither they nor Heydon had given the wreck of a burned out car much thought. That is, until one of the firemen had pried open the boot of what must once have been a looker of a limousine. 

Heydon had no idea how the others could stand it. The stench was unbearable. Now that he'd got a whiff of it, it had engraved itself into his olfactory memory. It was all around him; on his coat and in his nostrils. Every breath brought with it a wave of unwanted images; a black and ragged shape he had at first mistaken for burned rubbish, until he'd seen the tightly clenched remains of a human hand, its broken skin maimed and covered in criss-crossing lines of crimson. Heydon closed his eyes, slumped forward even further and groaned tonelessly. How was he supposed to forget about something like that? He'd promised the wife to make it home in time for tea. Tea! The very concept seemed so silly to him now.

“Alright, matey?”

Heydon wanted to shrug off the hand that gave his shoulder a friendly pat but he kept still instead. It was all he could do to keep from dry-heaving into the grass. He managed a shaky nod a few moments later and took great care to stow away the handkerchief in one of his pockets; then he straightened himself up and turned around. 

Constable Strange had always treated him with kindness and respect. It just wouldn't do to embarrass himself any further in front of him. In his trench coat and helmet the heavy-set man exuded an air of calm authority, but Heydon was almost glad to see that there was a tightness around Strange's mouth that was only accentuated by the paleness of his skin. He may have lost it when he'd seen the body, but at least he wasn't the only one affected by the gruesome find. 

“You carry on, Stu”, Strange said to him now. “There's things need sorting. Have a look around the neighbourhood, like. Find out if anyone's seen anything. Make things easier for CID.”

“Yes, Jim,” Heydon replied gratefully. He knew for a fact that there wasn't much else left for him to do. The car had been abandoned on what was nothing more than a muddy byway at the side of the train tracks. Trees framed both sides of the single lane that had retroactively been blocked off by a single police car and a fire engine. Small allotments littered the area opposite the rails but this side of the tracks was almost exclusively made up of open fields. A small crowd of curious onlookers, mostly men on their way to work, had gathered in some safe distance from the burned out wreck. Heydon decided he might as well start with them; as soon as he had straightened his uniform and readjusted his helmet.

“Good man,” Strange commended his newly-found resolve. He nodded gruffly to himself and turned around on the spot before stiffly walking back the way he had come, over to where the boot of the car was now examined by a small, bespectacled police surgeon with a very particular taste in bow ties.

* * *

The monotonous and arrhythmical click click click of the old typewriter was testament to the ever-rising degree of boredom that had been building up all week. Car theft. If there was one thing describing perfectly the maddening lethargy which, to Morse, meant General Duties it was exactly that; negligible, insignificant and the exact opposite of intellectually stimulating. The Sun's Sunday crossword was more fun than this. At least you could solve it in under five minutes, if you were so inclined and loved a challenge that was, well, about as tricky as doing the dishes. Morse honestly couldn't say if he preferred one over the other but he would have given his Knappertsbusch recording of Parsifal to be rid of the tedious task of summarising his findings, or – more precisely – any lack thereof.

Twice Jakes had sent him to conduct interviews and take statements but other than the two missing limousines, one a Bentley and the other an oversized Daimler, there simply wasn't anything to go by. Both cars had been stolen in the early hours of a weekday morning and had probably vanished without a trace en route to London. All that was left for Morse to do, was to type up an inconsequential report and dump it on his sergeant's desk, where – if he was lucky – it would be skimmed through briefly by the man who, in absentia of DI Fred Thursday, had been appointed Acting Detective Inspector by Chief Superintendent Bright. 

Morse was sure he'd never hear the end of it.

It was to be a two-week arrangement only, of course. With Thursday away on a well deserved family holiday in sunny Cornwall someone had to take the reins long enough for order to persevere at Cowley CID. Bright had been amicable enough, commending one of their own for the job instead of sending for reinforcements from Witney. Not that Morse would have cared either way. Even before Thursday had left there'd been woefully little to do, and he had been assigned to General Duties. That meant having to deal with Jakes, who was after all his direct superior, on a daily basis.

And some things never changed, it seemed. 

“Coffee, Morse?” he heard Jakes ask casually from where he had entered the spacious office only moments before. Morse, who suddenly felt rather relieved to be caught up in typing work, brusquely shook his head.

“No, thanks.”

“Not what I meant, was it?” came the prompt reply as Sergeant-turned-Inspector Jakes leaned against his desk, mock impatience only half-hiding the smile that did absolutely nothing to soften his gruff appearance. It took Morse a moment to fully grasp the true extent of what it was that the man was implying. When he did, he felt slightly offended and more than just a little hurt. 

This wasn't the first time Jakes had made a cruel mockery of what it meant to be colleagues, and really, Morse had grown to expect nothing but ridicule and antagonism from him. It seemed only fair not to give Jakes the satisfaction of witnessing any sign of defeat. 

And Morse was good at keeping a face that was both aloof and a fraction too unconcerned to be entirely convincing. 

“Isn't that a WPC's job?” he heard himself say, although he regretted the callous remark immediately. Morse wasn't naïve. The general consensus on women police officers was staunchly reactionary. There weren't any women detectives, and even the WPCs were often regarded as being good for one thing only: brewing a good cuppa. Morse didn't necessarily agree with those views – he'd never actually given it much thought – and now he felt like he had walked right into Jakes's trap. His fingers abandoned the smooth keys of his typewriter as he gave into what amounted to a most unbecoming scowl and watched how the calculated air of heartlessness in Jakes's eyes vanished until all that was left was a good-natured hint of superiority. 

Which didn't much improve matters. 

“It's what good little bagmen do, innit?” A smile had crept into Jakes's voice but Morse was anxious not to let things go so easily.

“I wouldn't know about that,” he replied pointedly and allowed himself a few precious seconds of enjoying the open look of irritation on the other man's face. Every last remnant of Jakes's playfulness was gone as he stood up a little straighter and finally decided to change the topic.

“Right. Get your coat, Morse. Plod just called it in. Body was found just off Aristotle Lane. Burned out wreck of a car, that's right down your alley, isn't it?”

Surprise and disdain mingled on Morse's face, and he couldn't prevent his over-active mind from conjuring up revolting snapshots of what he imagined the burned and blackened remains of any living being must look like. He'd never seen a burned body before. The smell, he'd read, was one you never quite forgot. 

Jakes, it seemed, had sensed his hesitation and decided to make a show out of it as Morse shrugged into his coat and followed him down the corridors that lead out of the station and into an uncharacteristically cold June morning.

“You can keep your squeamishness for when you get properly acquainted with the vic.” Jakes smirked, then abruptly sobered up. “S'what you wanted, Morse, so don't act all sanctimonious with me.”

* * *

The words were still echoing through Morse's head when Jakes took the Jag past Jericho and up Walton Street. The man had insisted on driving himself and since there wasn't much else to talk about Morse was left to his own thoughts as they turned into Kingston Road.

He didn't much like what Jakes had accused him of. It wasn't as if he thrived on murder, was it? The very thought was preposterous! He was a policeman. He also made for a fine detective, and as such he saw his talents wasted in General Duties. Car theft and breaking and entering, that's what they had uniforms for, didn't they? Strange himself was busy breaking records left and right, solving all manner of petty crimes in and around Oxford as if he still hadn't grasped the fact that he'd failed his sergeant's and had to spent another year patrolling the streets. At this rate he'd still make it to Super before Bright had the courtesy to pack it in and permanently make his home in the Chief Constable's backside – an amusing thought that made Morse chuckle to himself as he sat huddled against the passenger door in an attempt to keep both warm and comfortable.

“What's so funny then?”

Morse sobered up instantly, the open look on his face becoming guarded and withdrawn.

“Nothing.”

The car swerved slightly as Jakes turned his head to look at him, but Morse pretended not to notice and instead looked out the window, where the Oxford spring was less than picture-perfect and midsummer seemed a fair bit away. The stormy and wet weather had begun to clear up only last night, and the streets and pavement had turned into a veritable obstacle course of puddles, branches and wind-swept leaves. Jakes took each of them as they came, not caring much if the Jag's polished and sleek black coat was sprinkled liberally with mud long before they reached Aristotle Lane.

Once there, they turned into a small byway that lead them close to the train tracks, where they stopped behind a light green Morris that Morse instantly recognised as belonging to Dr Max DeBryn. He quite liked the man – although he would have never openly admitted to it – but his presence did nothing to lighten his mood, and he did his best to ignore the fact that he was about to be lectured on the gruesome details of what was sure to be a violent crime.

The place, to Morse, seemed busy. There was an unusual number of people about. Few of them were policemen. He recognised Strange by the bulk of his uniform a bit further off. As usual, he was a welcome sight, even though the meaning of their casual friendship had ever so slightly shifted after the months he had spent away on Light Duties in Witney. This, Morse knew, had nothing to do with Strange per se. He still very much liked the man. It was more about the company he kept. The Freemasons had never much appealed to Morse and that's what he had made abundantly clear to Strange. So what if they hadn't been for a drink in a while? Strange wasn't the type to be holding it against him, was he? He had more than enough friends to choose from now. He knew how to get on. Morse didn't. 

Most of the time he truly didn't mind.

And anyway, now wasn't the time to get distracted. He'd already wasted the opportunity of escaping the unwanted tutelage of his temporary DI and slink away into the background of the crime scene. Now Morse noticed that Jakes too hadn't made a move to get out of the car. The man seemed nervous and highly-strung as he stared straight ahead, the pale fingers of his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that they stood out harshly against its smooth black surface.

“I want none of your usual antics, Morse. This is my inquiry and we're gonna do it nice and proper.” The way he swallowed half of his consonants didn't sound very proper to Morse at all, but he nodded, curtly, before muttering a smug “Sir,” and stepping out into the soft drizzle of a windy Tuesday morning.

His thin coat helped nothing to shield him against the weather but it seemed that at least the fire brigade had done some quick thinking and erected a make-shift tent around what must have been the car wreck. As of yet, Morse didn't catch more than just small glimpses of its charred coachwork as he manoeuvred his way past a marked police car and three loitering firemen who seemed curious about the ongoing proceedings of the forensic experts. Pictures were being taken, not an easy task when both the photographer and the oversized camera were clad in a see-through, plastic macintosh. Morse ignored the man. His attentions brushed over DeBryn, who stood hunched beneath the tarpaulin, then focussed on the car. He recognised the model instantly.

“That's a Mark 2.”

“You're full of surprises, Morse,” came Jakes's thoroughly unimpressed reply, followed by the familiar sound of the man trying to light a cigarette; once, then twice until the smoke dispersed unevenly in the wind and rain. For once in his life, Morse was glad of the smell that lingered. It mingled with the sweet stench of petrol, melted plastic and something that reminded him of burned hair and overcooked Sunday roast. How DeBryn could stand it, Morse didn't know.

“Hullo, detectives,” the small pathologist piped up now. “Just the three of us today, isn't it? Well, and this poor sod, of course.” Morse reluctantly followed his gaze, expecting the familiar drop of his stomach and the persistent dizziness that so often accompanied it. The smell was bad enough. How much worse would it be to catch a glimpse of a burned corpse? Morse swallowed but his mouth had run uncomfortably dry.

To his surprise, though, there wasn't much to see, and at first he wondered if DeBryn had been mistaken and someone had left the stiff and waxen torso of a discarded mannequin in the boot of the car. The corpse, or what was left of it, didn't look human. In fact, it looked disturbingly less so; like a thing, every single attribute but its shape wiped away by flame. The sight didn't make him queasy; it made him angry instead. Murder Morse could understand but this was incomprehensible to him, and he vowed right then and there to unravel the mystery of what had happened here. 

Jakes had apparently reached a different conclusion. When Morse looked up there was a paleness to the man's face that gave him a decidedly greenish tint. 

“It's a … the victim's male?” he managed to grind out and took a shaky drag from his cigarette, then turned his head away; a mixture of thinly-veiled disgust and profound malaise showing in the way he wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes. It was the smell that bothered him, Morse realised, and he could sympathise – to a small degree.

“Good catch, sergeant,” DeBryn replied and ignored the man's squeamishness. “The victim is indeed a man. Or rather, what's left of him. I'm afraid there isn't much to go on at the moment.”

Jakes nodded once, as if in deep thought. A moment later he flicked away his cigarette and fled the scene. Morse watched him half-bump into the forensic photographer but there was nary a word of protest from either of the men as Jakes caught his balance and hastened away.

“This is becoming a bit of a habit with you lot, isn't it?” DeBryn joked mildly. He too was watching Jakes hurry out of sight.

“It's a difficult thing to digest, I imagine.”

“Do you now, Morse?” he asked pointedly – and the irony dripping from his words wasn't lost on Morse – before leaning once more over the boot of the car.

Morse, meanwhile, cleared his throat. There was a bitter and unpleasant taste in his mouth, like wet ashes and smoke, and he wished for a generous measure of scotch with which to wash it away. He couldn't leave for the nearest public house quite yet (and anyway, the pubs were closed this early in the day) so he returned to the task at hand. Someone had to, after all.

“Did he die in the fire?”

He vaguely gestured toward the body. 

“I couldn't possibly say, Morse. You'll have to wait for my report.”

Morse frowned. He had never understood why it was so important to wait for paperwork when it was vital that any available information be passed on immediately. This was a police inquiry, after all, and not a tax report.

“Anything else?” 

Impatience made his voice sound ungracious.

“Not much, I'm afraid,” DeBryn said and, as if to stress his words, rolled off his rubber gloves and put them in his bag. “The heat must have been not inconsiderable. It destroyed much of the evidence.”

Morse was inclined to agree. The car wasn't much more than a burned out husk, its windows shattered and tyres flat, the interior melted, charred or blackened by the remnants of toxic smoke. It was also dripping wet, presumably because it had still been in flames when the fire brigade arrived. All in all, there wasn't much to go by.

“Which is what the murderer intended?” he mused as they both slowly made their way to the front of the car.

“Or murderers. Plural, Morse. Don't underestimate the powers of prescriptive grammar. But I shouldn't lecture you on how to do your job. After all, you almost always do me the same courtesy. I imagine it shouldn't be too difficult to find out whose car it is.”

At that, Morse scoffed. 

“There's bound to be dozens of the same model in Oxfordshire alone.”

“True.” DeBryn nodded to where a small patch of the partially opened driver's door was left almost untouched by the flames. The light coat of paint there was blistered and singed but otherwise undamaged. “But this one was of a rather fetching grey.”

Morse left the pathologist to it. There wasn't much else to say. He had another quick look inside the wreck but all he gained for his curiosity were dark smudges down the front of his coat. Morse tried to brush them off but to no avail.

“How do you think the fire was started? Accelerants?” he asked one of the firemen who stood idly by the make-shift tent.

“Likely. Cars don't burn easily and this one burned hot and fast. Wasn't much left to do when we got here.”

Morse nodded. It explained why the Jaguar's interior was almost completely destroyed. Some of the forensic personnel would have to pry open the glove compartment and comb the footwell and back seat for evidence. Perhaps it would more than make up for the lack of licence plates. Morse didn't doubt that whoever had torched the car had also wanted to make sure that it couldn't be traced. 

But trace it they would. 

Morse didn't envy whoever would have to carry out the inquiry. With Thursday gone, the job would most likely fall to him; a frustrating thought that made him look sullen and half-hearted as he buried his hands in the pockets of his coat and approached Strange.

“Get some men to search the area. Whoever did this might also have disposed of the car's plates.”

He had no time for niceties. This was the scene of a crime, after all. Strange indulged him, as usual, but he did raise an eyebrow at the lack of greeting. Morse pretended not to care but in his guilt hunched his shoulders and looked away. He hadn't meant to be rude. The realisation did nothing to lift his mood, even if Strange himself took no offence.

“Already one step ahead of you there, matey.”

Any sense of accomplishment was cut mercilessly short.

“And?”

“Nil.” The answer didn't sit too well with either of them but Strange seemed determined, at least, to make an effort. “Too early to say, really.”

Morse left his words uncommented. Looking for the plates was a waste of time, he knew. A technicality, nothing more, to keep idle hands busy and ease the minds of people like Bright. Why on Earth Strange took such pride in it, Morse didn't understand. Surely there were other, more important lines of inquiry to pursue. He looked expectantly at his friend. All he needed was a spark to jump-start his brain. 

“Bloke who lives a bit further up says he's not seen anything out of the ordinary when he walked home from the pub last night.”

This wasn't what Morse was looking for. 

“When was this?” he asked but his heart wasn't in it. Instead he watched as forensics carefully lifted the body out of the Jag's boot. A sheet of tarp covered most of the corpse, still Morse couldn't stand to look on for more than just a few seconds until he visibly shifted his weight and cast his eyes downwards.

“At about quarter past nine?” Strange mused, as steadfast as ever. 

“Was he the one who-”

“Reported the fire? Nah. Woman named Patricia Stevenson was looking out of her kitchen window at about half past 7 and saw smoke rising from behind the line of trees.” Strange nodded towards a group of slender ash trees framing the right side of the road. “She told gramps, who took the dog and went to see what the fuss was-”

“Not much to go on, then.” It was Morse's turn to cut him off. He'd heard more than enough and little of real consequence. What it meant was that someone had parked the car in the early hours of a working day. He, or she (or indeed they), had been confident enough to set it ablaze in broad daylight and walk away unseen. Someone who knew the area, perhaps? 

Deep in thought, Morse's fingers brushed his right ear lobe, then over the sensitive skin underneath it.

“Should I have the men do door-to-doors?” Strange asked, after a moment of not unpleasant silence had passed between them. 

“I suppose.” 

Morse shrugged and his stray hand found its way back into the pocket of his coat. Despite the uncommitted reply Strange had produced a small note pad from one of his pockets.

“What's up with him, then?” he asked while he was scribbling away. There was no malice in his voice but he didn't altogether sound too concerned. 

Morse knew who he meant immediately, and he sought out Jakes, standing alone at the very edge of the busy proceedings of the crime scene. He was smoking again, and he no longer looked so sickly, but his mouth was set in a tight line and he seemed fidgety and uneasy.

“Are you still on for tonight?” was all that Morse knew to reply. 

“Wouldn't miss it, Morse. It's your round, after all.”

The self-pleased smile tugging at the corners of Strange's mouth wasn't terribly infectious. 

“Is it really?” Morse grimaced, then said his good-byes. 

He was reluctant to face Jakes. If the man was anything like him (which he most decidedly wasn't) he'd be in a foul mood, and no amount of gloating or well-deserved schadenfreude on his part would be worth the trouble. In his time with the Oxford City Morse had ended up the butt of far too many of Jakes's jokes. Let him lash out at somebody else. Let him become the laughing stock of CID for once. It would be so easy to lead him on. Morse knew he could do it. A few well-aimed words could humiliate more than anything Jakes had ever done to him. He could make it hurt, too. It didn't take a lot to hurt people, Morse knew from first-hand experience.

But no, he'd never had much of an appetite for revenge. His heart wasn't in it, and there was a lot more heart in Morse than people usually credited him with. He could be arrogant, people frequently cut themselves on his sharp wit, but he almost never acted with malicious intent. There were those to whom it didn't make a difference. He doubted any of them had had to share a roof with the likes of Gwen Morse.

“They're transferring the body now.” 

In his attempt to keep a neutral face Morse looked cold and reserved. It didn't much surprise him that Jakes mirrored his stance with the same calculated air of detachment. 

“DeBryn say anything else?”

“Not much. We'll have to wait for his report.”

The topic was enough to unsettle Jakes. He seemed strangely affected as he half-turned his back on him. Morse decided to ignore the man's lingering nervousness. It wasn't in his job description to console a colleague who'd never return the favour. Any word not spent on the topic of their investigation felt like a waste of breath.

Jakes was inclined to agree as he now hurried back to where he'd parked the car. But as Morse made to open the passenger door he was abruptly stopped.

“Not you,” Jakes said, finger pointed straight at him over the roof of the car. “You're to stay here until uniform and forensics have finished their jobs.”

His sudden change of character took Morse by surprise. It seemed as if Jakes had recovered from his strange mood faster than he'd had the time to react.

“Well, how am I supposed to get back to the station?”

Jakes's sardonic smile didn't touch his eyes and looked slightly out of place on his pale cheeks. 

“Don't know, do I?”

When he backed the old Mark I out of the temporary close Morse didn't watch him go.

“Acting Detective Inspector Jakes stood you up?” 

Morse recognised the clumsy traces of dry humour in Strange's voice, yet he couldn't suppress a roll of his eyes.

“I don't know why I bother.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this fic back in February not much was known about series 2. Of course now most of it couldn't have taken place in canon because Morse didn't return to Cowley until May. Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to continue as planned anyway, despite the fact that I was jossed spectacularly. Just treat this fic as slightly AU from now on. 
> 
> Again, many thanks to Beth for beta'ing and Rose for having to suffer through the first draft.
> 
> Kudos to everyone who recognises the names of Jakes's constables. The quoted bit at the end (please bear with me, I'm trying not to be too spoiler-y here) is the title of one of Colin Dexter's short stories. I couldn't help myself.

Reginald Bright prided himself on being a just man, a pragmatic man, an approachable man. He scoffed at those believing themselves to be good. It was an extraordinarily arrogant concept. It had no merit. How naïve to think that one could model one's life after a set of unattainable ideals that did nothing but ease one's own conscience. Good men; one usually didn't know what else to call them. They had failed to distinguish themselves in the eyes of their peers. People liked or disliked them, but they didn't exactly know why. Good men defied definition. Good men were erratic and unpredictable. How presumptuous to think one could rely on them. Good grief, but how much worse it would be to be counted among them!

No one had ever made the mistake of calling Chief Superintendent Bright a good man. Still, he was a better man than his predecessor, of that much he was sure. The scandal surrounding Ronald Crisp had not been inconsiderable, though Bright had never given much thought to rumours and unfounded allegations. What he'd seen was the divisional planning report. The numbers therein had spoken to him unequivocally. Cowley Police Station was a mismanaged and grossly neglected mess. Its accounts had been in the red for years. 

But that was to be expected, given the fact that Crisp had been a Chief Superintendent of the plain clothes variety. 

Naturally, Bright respected his detectives tremendously. Their investigative skills were commendable. So commendable, in fact, that one couldn't honestly expect any of them to be well-versed in management practices. 

“You are aware of course, Detective, that there is more at stake here than your personal reputation.”

The man before him bore great promise. He was young, hard-working and came highly recommended. It was Bright's responsibility to offer him guidance, especially now that his direct superior was temporarily out of the picture. 

“Sir,” Jakes, quite rightly, replied and Bright nodded his agreement. They had shared cigarettes between them. Naturally, he had been the one to offer, to make the young detective feel more at ease. Now Bright was sitting at his desk and Jakes was standing in the middle of the room, while trails of smoke hung heavy in the air all around them and punctuated the well-measured but rather uncomfortable moments of silence that frequently interspersed their conversation .

“Division has to be informed of all personnel changes, whether they are temporary or not,” Bright continued. There was no need for crossness, yet a certain degree of formality had to be maintained. Sergeant Jakes was a diamond in the rough. He'd either grow used to it or fall out of favour. Not every policeman was meant to rise through the ranks. Jakes was lucky indeed to have an opportunity such as this present itself to him.

“I realise that. I-”

Bright chose to ignore him.

“All eyes rest upon you, Acting Inspector Jakes. The Assistant Chief Constable himself has only recently mentioned an interest in CID proceedings here at Cowley.”

Jakes's eyes went wide.

“I won't disappoint you," he assured solemnly.

But Bright shook his head. It seemed that his young detective still didn't understand the gravity of what was expected of him.

“This has got nothing to do with me,” he said. There was only the slightest change in his casual demeanour, yet now he spoke with a deliberate air of authority. He didn't much like what he saw before him. Peter Jakes might have been able to sway weaker minds with his winning smile and self-possessed charm but it wouldn't do him much good among his betters. Even now he tried to defuse any misgivings by pretending this to be nothing more than an informal chat. Bright was having none of it, and he scarcely reacted, except to purse his lips, when Jakes began to explain.

“What I meant, sir, was-”

“Nonsense.” Bright registered the quick flash of surprise on the other man's face with only the mildest of interest. “You'll conduct your investigation to the highest standards of professionalism.”

“Right, sir.”

Jakes sounded sincere, so Bright let it go.

“Was there anything else, Inspector?” he inquired after another bout of uncomfortable silence.

“I've set a briefing for 11. Make sure we cover every possible angle; murder, manslaughter, car theft gone wrong.”

Jakes didn't seem daunted by the task at hand, which was a laudable trait in any man.

“I'm sure you have everything well under control. I myself shall not be disturbed any further today. I will be attending a conference with the Constabulary in Reading.”

And that was that. Bright was absolutely positive that the inquiry would resolve itself in due time. All his men needed was the right kind of incentive, and he had done his utmost to encourage his young detective. Everything beyond that would depend on Jakes's abilities as a police officer. 

* * *

The incident board was empty. It would take another few hours for forensics to finish developing each of the photographs taken at the crime scene. Jakes supposed they'd be delivered here some time in the late afternoon. Until then, there really wasn't much for him to do except supervise the humble beginnings of their investigation. What they were missing was a lead. A burned car and a body didn't make for a very compelling case until they'd found out whose car it was and who had been murdered. 

Or maybe the victim hadn't been murdered after all. Maybe they were looking at a botched hit-and-run and whoever was to blame had panicked enough to attempt and destroy not one but two vital pieces of evidence.

Only it hadn't been evidence that Jakes had been looking at when he'd casually let his gaze wander over the boot of the car. He'd been staring at someone's life, or the precious little that was left of it. Never before had Jakes been more aware of the fact that he was dealing not with traces of blood or a fingerprint but with a human being. It shouldn't have been possible. He'd seen his share of stiffs; smelled them too, which never had been the most pleasant of experiences but he'd dealt with it. What difference did it make if the corpse reeked of sickly-sweet decay or smouldering finger nails? It shouldn't have mattered. Yet remnants of the biting stench clung to him like stale cigarette smoke, and he'd fought the overwhelming urge to change into a different suit all day.

Jakes allowed himself a moment of weakness and ran a cold hand over his face. He sat tucked away behind his desk but he had long since abandoned skimming through the reports that still needed his approval as the CID's most superior officer and instead opting in favour of smoking one cigarette after another. Two of his constables were hard at work, checking vehicle registrations and local garages. The third desk, closest to his own, was empty; but what did Morse know about conducting a formal line of inquiry? He was probably off on yet another of his fool's errands. The whole thing was ridiculous, highly irregular and almost insulting. Undoubtedly Morse would be the one to reap any benefits of his private little investigation, but any failure on his part was on Jakes's head alone. 

As if he wasn't under enough pressure already.

It wasn't due to his skills as a detective, Jakes knew. Evidence was evidence, whether it was he who lead the inquiry or simply followed another detective's orders. Eventually, and if they went by the book, there'd be only one possible solution to this case. Unfortunately, it wasn't merely a question of 'if.' What haunted Jakes was the 'when.' If he managed to crack this by the time Thursday returned from his family holiday he'd not only have the Chief Constable's favour; his name and picture would end up in the papers. He'd be the talk of the town. Word of this could reach as far as London.

If and when but not how. Jakes wasn't afraid of the how. He'd always been capable of holding his own. So what if Morse picked up on details faster? If he worked with him once in a while he'd actually have something to show for it other than half a degree and a failed sergeant's.

And now he even had the gall to walk past him as if absolutely nothing of consequence had happened. Jakes watched him as he slipped out of his rain-sodden coat and let it drop over the back of his chair. There was an absent-mindedness to him that fuelled Jakes's anger even further. Morse hadn't come here to partake in what was expected of him. He'd come because it suited his own agenda. He hadn't even nodded so much as a greeting towards Bell and Bottomley, who sat barely five steps away from him and were doing some proper police work, boring and nerve-wrecking and ultimately almost always fruitless. It just wouldn't do.

When Jakes got up, his eyes still fixed on Morse, the back of his chair bumped against a set of filing cabinets. The rattle startled Morse. Good, he wanted him to know. Guilt or intimidation Jakes couldn't expect from him so he had to make do with the moment of surprise on his side as he strode past his desk.

“You. Office. Now,” he demanded, his voice rising well above the level of good-natured conversation. The stares of the other two constables he ignored as he pushed open the door to Thursday's office but he caught the distinct impression first of confusion and then of affront on Morse's face.

“I'm not so sure we're supposed to be in here,” he said, hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers as he reluctantly followed him into the room. 

“Not locked, was it?” Jakes replied between clenched teeth and shoved the door close behind him. 

“Even so.”

The way he looked around himself, as if they had jointly committed some kind of terrible blasphemy by coming in here, reminded Jakes of the bitter truth that he would never have this man's respect. Morse owed his loyalty to one man only, and it was painfully clear to him that Detective Inspector Thursday repaid that loyalty in kind. 

Jakes had dragged Morse in here because Thursday's office seemed a convenient enough place to tell him off without having to suffer any public display of opposition. Now he found that the way they were both standing not quite side-by-side in the spacious room weighed him down.

“Where were you at the briefing?” he asked. Much of his anger had evaporated. If he'd turn around, Jakes was almost sure of it, he'd see Thursday. He'd be wielding his presence like a weapon, his steady gaze watchful and expectant. Even in his absence the rich smell of tobacco permeated every corner of the room. It made for a confusing extension of power, and Jakes was immediately reminded of all the times Thursday had effortlessly reeled him in when he'd gone too far.

This time, however, not even Thursday would have looked on with paternal benevolence.

“The briefing?” Morse repeated. He looked stumped. “I er ...” 

“Following leads, were you? Cracked the case all by yourself! I'm waiting, Morse. Whodunnit, then?”

“I don't know,” came his reluctant reply. He didn't give Jakes the satisfaction of admitting defeat. Instead, his words had an edge to them that sounded distinctly frustrated. Before him stood a man who seemed more disturbed by not knowing than being caught out by his superiors. The thought alone made the corners of Jakes's mouth twitch. They were barely twelve hours into the case and already Detective Constable Morse was showing signs of impatience. Funny then, that he didn't understand that procedure was there to help and not to antagonise him.

“I told you we'd do this by the book,” Jakes said, his own resolve weakened by Morse's sincerity.

“I was checking a few of the local garages, and-”

Morse's utter lack of respect for the traditional pillars of police work re-ignited his anger.

“Bell is checking local garages! If you'd been at the briefing you'd know that!” Jakes shook his head, his piercing eyes heavily hooded by his thick eyebrows. “If word of this reaches Bright ...”

But not even his thinly-veiled threat seemed to deter Morse.

“What? It's back to General Duties for me? No offence but from where I'm standing it's not making much of a difference.”

It was unlike Jakes to give in this easily. Just like Morse, he was a proud man. And just like Morse, he wasn't stupid. He knew when there was nothing more to say without resorting to name-calling and fisticuffs. The verdict was still out on whether that wasn't exactly what Morse needed but he couldn't very well act on what his clenched fists were itching to do. He was better than that, and the fact remained that he had an investigation to lead. Any irregularity – even the sorry excuse for a detective constable who refused to know his place – would fall back on him. Did Morse care? Did he even understand about the heavy weight that rested on his shoulders, or was he only in it for the thrill of solving what no one but him even perceived as a puzzle? Jakes had seen him fill in crossword grids in a matter of minutes. It had made him realise that they needed Morse. 

“Everyone can see that you're a clever sod, Morse,” he said, arms akimbo and letting his gaze flicker downwards before he looked back up with new-found intensity in his blue-green eyes. “What, you think we're stupid?” 

Now it was Morse's turn to be surprised. Tongue-tied and awkward, he furrowed his brows and pursed his lips, as if he wasn't sure he'd understood Jakes right but was flattered all the same. It was easy to faze Morse that way. You didn't even have to wear a hat and smoke a pipe. 

In the not uncomfortable silence that followed Jakes could hear the low hum of voices from the office next door. He held no illusions that Bottomley and Bell hadn't given into their curiosity and at least attempted to listen in to part of their conversation. There were policemen, after all. Now, much like the argument between Morse and him their attention had shifted. Jakes could hear the atonal ring-ring of a phone before it was dutifully picked up. Morse stood before him, lost and unsure but impatient all the same. Good. He'd need whatever it was that was driving him to help him crack the case. Or was it the other way around? These days, Jakes wasn't so sure.

Lately, he wasn't sure about a lot of things. 

“You're not going to tell anyone? About the stiff, I mean.” he asked, quietly. His gaze followed that of Morse, and jointly they looked at the blurry bits of street that were visible beyond one of the windows. The whole affair made Jakes crave a smoke (but not in here; never in here where it smelled of dusty furniture, oiled wood and scented tobacco). While he ineffectively fumbled for his pack of cigarettes just so he had something to do, Morse shook his head. Evidently he had understood, and for whatever reason he had decided to keep the news of Detective Sergeant Peter Jakes's highly embarrassing aversion to burned corpses to himself. 

Jakes repaid his honesty in kind.

“I would.”

“Oh, what's it matter?”

The turn of the conversation had left him exasperated, and Jakes caught on quickly.

“I don't make the rules, Morse,” he shrugged, unlit cigarette already dangling from his mouth. He didn't intend to linger for much longer. They had things to do, even if Morse felt that the grind of ordinary police work was far beneath him. It was, apparently, one in a long list of many harsh realities Morse saw no reason to participate in, as he now explained away quite disdainfully.

“Yet you seem intent on following them. Cutting corners along the way.”

Jakes glared at him. Morse made it sound so cheap. Like he was the first copper to seize an opportunity that had presented itself.

“It's what you do. To get on,” he replied coolly. “I know you don't care.”

In fact, Morse had made abundantly clear what he thought of calling in favours. A peek at the exam papers, that's all it would have been, but Morse had acted as if he'd just stomped on his favourite opera record.

That had been months ago, and suddenly Morse had the gall to be insulted?

“What makes you think I don't care?” he asked, the pitch of his voice rising ever so slightly.  
Jakes wasn't entirely sure what he was on about now. Then again, with Morse he seldom was.

“You serious? Have you looked at yourself?”

“I'm doing fine, aren't I?” Morse was quick to reply, then glanced down at his wrinkled shirt and unbuttoned jacket. His naivety made Jakes smile – a genuine smile that reached his eyes and curled his lips.

“Yeah, you keep on telling yourself that,” he drawled, the reason for their private chat almost forgotten. 

A courteous knock had some of the tension return to the soft roll of Jakes's shoulders. The windowed door to Thursday's office showed Bell's eager face, his grey eyes twinkling with excitement and pride.

“We've found something, Peter!” he greeted Jakes the instant he opened the door.

“Found what?” interrupted Morse. Every trace of awkwardness was now gone from his voice; and if he deemed it strange that Bell was calling his sergeant by his first name it didn't show on his face, which had instead become aloof in all of its purposeful intensity.

“The owner of the Jag,” Bell was slow to reply, evidently displeased by the way Morse was stealing his thunder. 

“Go on,” Jakes cut in. He didn't have time for petty jealousies among his men. How fortunate for him that one of them didn't understand office politics and the other was gracious enough to recover quickly.

“It's registered to a Louise Crane, out in Park Town. Been reported stolen only this morning.”

The instance Bell had parted with his news Jakes picked up on the flicker of confusion – or was it recognition? – on Morse's face. He'd become quite adept at reading the man, at least where their job was concerned. If Morse had a hunch it was usually worth checking out, that much even Jakes had to admit to himself. 

It was thus that the next course of action became perfectly clear to him.

“Morse. With me,” he decided on a whim, leaving behind a startled Constable Bell in Thursday's empty office.

* * *

They spent the short drive to Oxford and then up the Banbury Road in mutual silence. Morse, once more banished to the co-driver's seat, had not yet shared his rising suspicions with Jakes. Crane, the name evoked unwanted memories. But there were bound to be many Cranes in Oxford, and truth be told, he didn't much feel up to discussing Town and Gown with the likes of Peter Jakes. Not now anyway. The man seemed prejudiced during the best of times; that wasn't the problem. An Oxford boy himself (although Morse had always detested that particular moniker) he had learned the hard way that more often than not Jakes was actually right.

And Morse had absolutely no intention of telling him. It had no bearing on the case. The man with which he associated the name Crane had proven to be the exception to the rule. 

He'd had a wife. Morse had met her a couple of times. A daughter, too; about five or six years younger than he was. Astrid, her name had been. But Crane's wife? He couldn't remember her name. Could it have been Louise or was his over-eager mind playing tricks on him? And they would have had to have moved. Park Town was a good ways from Lonsdale but in comfortable reach by car. 

The car, did it really belong to an Oxford don? A myriad of thoughts kept whirling around in Morse's head. Once more, it seemed, the past was catching up with him, and the very possibility of being drawn into Lonsdale affairs made Morse sullen and tight-lipped. Jakes had noticed, too, judging by the side-ways glances he was throwing him now and again. Morse supposed he should consider himself lucky that the man was preoccupied with illusions of grandeur. He hadn't even asked if he'd found out anything during his little trip to the two garages that he'd come across on his way back to the station. 

Morse wouldn't have known what to say anyway. His own inquiries hadn't exactly been fruitless but he didn't yet know how to treat the bits of information he had managed to wrestle from the garages' less than helpful owners. No, they couldn't remember a grey Mark 2 passing through recently, and anyway, saloons of that calibre were bound to be dropped off somewhere else – a licensed garage perhaps, or one of the up-market places closer to the old Morris plant in Cowley. None of it mattered right now. The Mark 2 had been reported stolen by Mrs Crane. But why? Would she prove to be an innocent bystander whose car had merely been an accessory to murder; or was there a possibility that she was in league with the murderer (it simply hadn't occurred to Morse that she herself could turn out to be the culprit), going for the likeliest of alibis? Was it murder? Was it an accident? Morse kept running theory against theory. He was reminded of a brand new crossword whose very first clue eluded him and so made it impossible to fill in the rest of the grid. Pointless most people would have called it but Morse wasn't most people, he knew, and he'd always thrived on riddles, so much so that he appeared deep in thought when Jakes took a right turn into Park Town and stopped the car in front of one of the meticulously kept terraced houses. 

“Morse, you asleep or what?” he asked brusquely but when Morse turned his head to look at him there was none of the usual glint of amusement in Jakes's eyes. Again, the man seemed tense. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth as he pushed open the driver's door and stepped out into the rainy gloom of the early afternoon. Morse followed him, his thin coat still damp from when he had made his way back to Cowley after he had unsuccessfully surveyed the garages. The house they walked up to was unremarkable in every way. If anything, it managed to look almost nondescript amidst the other properties, its weathered sandstone dark and dirtied by the rain. There were no decorations, no green, and only a shadow of dark curtains framing the inside of the large windows facing the street. The small name tag by the door simply read Crane, and as Jakes knocked Morse mentally prepared himself for what he had suspected ever since Bell had waltzed into Thursday's office.

It didn't help at all.

A man opened the door, slowly but wide enough for them to see into the small vestibule beyond. The room seemed to Morse bare and unfinished, like its owners hadn't as of yet decided what to do with it. Just moved in, then? It would make sense. His former mentor must have been well into his 60s by now; a good age to be thinking about retirement. 

“Yes?” Crane squinted up at them. He was a small man, the top of his head barely reached Morse's chin. The glasses were new, they sat thick and heavy on Crane's aquiline nose. Alas, his hair was still the same; unruly and steel-grey, it framed a face that had aged a fair bit since Morse had last seen it. Crane looked at them kindly, the rheumy, mud-brown eyes sparkling with wit and intelligence but not with recognition. 

Despite everything that had happened it hurt Morse to have been forgotten so easily. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought the better of it, closed it again and started anew.

“Uh.” It took him a moment to fumble for his badge. Crane glanced at it only briefly but like most people he didn't seem very interested in the particulars of it. “Detective Constable Morse and-”

“Detective Inspector Jakes,” Jakes interrupted. For once Morse was glad of it. “Oxford City Police. We're here about the car someone of this address has reported as stolen. A Mrs Louise Crane?”

Crane nodded, evidently relieved that any initial confusion on his part had been swiftly cleared up.

“Ah yes, yes.” Morse watched as he opened the door even further, revealing a maroon bow tie, well-tailored tweed and brown loafers. “That would be my wife.”

“And you are?” Jakes asked, expressive eyes guarded, and his voice entirely too overbearing. If Crane noticed, he didn't pay the man's burning ambition any heed. Instead, he gave each of them an absent-minded smile, not unlike the ones Morse managed to conjure up now and then, but altogether warmer and lasting a good bit longer. Morse felt himself grimace. He was reminded of a different time when, years ago, he had spent hours listening to the man's every word. More often than not Crane's lectures had derailed into heated discussions on what was only marginally connected to old manuscripts and classic translations. Almost always Morse had been the one to oppose Crane. The two of them had spent hours in Crane's study, long after Morse's fellow students had left, their discussions heated and highly theoretical. 

There had been an unmistakable air of arrogance to Morse's know-it-all attitude even back then but Crane had never retaliated in kind. The true extent of his tutor's knowledge Morse had only understood much later, when he'd already left for the Signal Corps. Instead of reprimanding his stubborn attempt at questioning even the most established of scholarly texts, Crane had merely guided him, much to the chagrin of some of his esteemed colleagues, who had preferred a more prescriptive approach to teaching. He had been part of the commission that had witnessed him fail his examination. Morse had never even said his farewells when he'd finally turned his back on Oxford – not out of shame (that hadn't come until much later). It just hadn't seemed important. Nothing had seemed important after Susan had gone, which was why he now thought of her instead of his failed Greats. 

Would Crane be disappointed if he knew, if he remembered?

Crane smiled, wider this time. 

“Forgive me. Dr Hilary Crane, senior fellow at Lonsdale College.” he beckoned them inside and lead them into a small office by the stairs. “I'm afraid my wife isn't at home. She's running errands, you see? But do come in. I was just revising some notes on Montfaucon's Palaeographia Graeca with my assistant here.”

Morse trailed closely behind Jakes, his face a mask of profound confusion. Crane didn't sound like a man who seemed overly concerned with police matters. In fact, he didn't seem nervous at all. The stolen Jaguar felt like an afterthought to him, not due to cold-blooded detachment but good-natured ignorance. A veritable genius Crane might have been but he didn't as of yet guess at the true extent of why the police were paying him a visit, instead digressing about how invaluable a help his assistant had proven in the course of his work. 

Said assistant, a junior fellow no doubt, had taken a seat on an ornate settee that had been stuck between two overburdened bookshelves with no regard to the layout of the room. He was balancing a stack of papers in his lap, while all around him lay about half a dozen dusty old books, their covers faded and pages yellowed with age. He wore a dark grey jumper that accentuated his cleanly-cut blond hair, and dark trousers that here and there were faintly stained with dust, just like the book in which he was engrossed. When he finally looked up his remarkable, light-blue eyes met Morse's.

“Pagan?” he asked softly. 

Morse stopped dead in his tracks. As Jakes abruptly turned to face him he felt the colour rising to his cheeks. 

“Of course! I never forget a face!” Crane's heavy glasses wobbled on his nose as he, too, turned around. “Mr E. Morse. BA Oxon,” he then recited from memory. “Failed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it - the third chapter of my case fic. A huge thank you goes out to my betas, Beth and Rose, and to everyone who encouraged me not to give up. If it wasn't for you guys I'd probably have abandoned this. 
> 
> I've decided against making Drive an AU fic and have rewritten parts of the previous two chapters. Nothing has changed plot-wise and you definitely don't need to re-read anything. All you need to know is that it's now early June, Strange is still a Constable, Morse has spent several months in Witney, and that the fic takes place after 'Trove' - so basically (hopefully) it's all canon-compatible.

Police Constable James Strange didn't mind a bit of rain. Jim, as he liked to be called, had patrolled not one but several different beats for years now. He had spent whole nights guarding crime scenes, and although most of these tasks had been passed on to junior officers, he was well aware that rummaging through the entrails of a burnt out car while the drizzle of a rainy afternoon clung to his uniform and clean-shaven face was no reason to grumble. It was this attitude, he supposed, people liked about him. So he had failed his sergeant's, by a slim margin of only three points and a downgrade for an unfortunate over-abundance of spelling mistakes. He had definitely grumbled about that, but once he had realised that no one held it against him, the shame and anger had passed and Strange had picked up where he had left off. Morse, of course, hadn't done his sergeant's, either. It simplified matters, even if he was far better off keeping that to himself. Not that they had had much of the opportunity to have a heart to heart. Morse seemed distant these days, and Strange wasn't entirely sure if it was due to what had happened to him back in January or because he mistrusted the company Strange now kept.

Strange wasn't much worried about it. Morse would come around. He actually looked forward to the end of his shift, when they'd arranged to meet in the White Horse for a pint or two. Strange didn't have any illusion as to who would have to buy their rounds but if that was the price to pay for Morse's company he was prepared to shell out a well-invested quid or two. Until then, they both had their work cut out for them. Strange didn't envy Morse his temporary new governor. At least he didn't have his superiors breathing down his neck every single step of the way. There wasn't even a sergeant at the scene. It was just him, Stu and Roddie, the latter of whom was still on probation and looked about as queasy as Constable Stuart Heydon, who still refused to get anywhere near the wreck of Jaguar. Strange could sympathise, even though he didn't feel any of the same nausea. He'd always had a strong stomach, and a useful knack for refusing to let things get to him. What sense was there in tossing and turning at night, thinking of all the poor sods who had lost their lives to crime? And what if he'd later go for twice the amount of chips to settle his upset stomach? Everyone needed an outlet, and at least he hadn't turned to drink.

“Almost done here,” Cliff Johnston shouted from where the fire engine was still parked a little way down the road. In reply, Strange lifted a hand to wave and nodded his head. He knew Cliff and had met him several times now. They both belonged to the same Lodge. Cliff had been invited to join the Masons several months prior to his own initiation ceremony, but they were both relatively low on the organisational ladder. Not that it mattered. Yes, there was a system of ranks, but once you were in and had been initiated as an apprentice you were made welcome and accepted. Judging by Oxford standards, it was more than could be said for colleges like Lonsdale or Beauford. 

With the fire brigade out of the picture, all that remained was for the wreck to be towed to one of the County's car parks where it would be examined in detail by forensic specialists sent to from the Yard. Until then City Police had to make sure that all immediate evidence was bagged and tagged, so once more Strange and his colleague (Stu was still making himself scarce by collecting witness statements) combed through what was left of what must once have been a respectable-looking limousine, certainly one of many on Oxford's busy streets. They gave the Jaguar's boot a wide berth. It had fallen to the Home Office pathologist to closely examine the body they'd found. What remained was the inside of the vehicle, sooty and dripping wet and for the most part unrecognisable. The smell of charred rubber and molten panelling burned in Strange's nostrils and made him feel faint but all he could think of was how lucky they were that their uniforms were as black as the soot that now covered the front of their trench coats. 

Spotting anything out of the ordinary wasn't an easy task. They'd employed the help of their torches but even those didn't shed much light on all of the detritus that had collected in the footwell of the car. The accelerator pedal and brake gleamed faintly in the torch's harsh light, but there was something else, something half-buried under wet ashes and grime.

“Hold on there a minute, Roddie,” Strange said and leant forward, until much of his upper body had vanished between the open driver's door and the blackened hole that was the car's cabin. The smell in here was unbearable but carried with it nothing of the sickly-sweet stench that still emanated from the car's boot. Strange didn't hesitate to stretch out his hand and carefully wipe away flaky bits of dirt. The ashes felt silky and warm against his skin. It didn't come away easily but after a bit of careful excavation a shape revealed itself in the driver's footwell, jagged and oblong, with a small, rounded handle that shone silver where Strange had wiped away the soot.

“It's a key!” Strange exclaimed and fumbled for a handkerchief with which to scoop up the small object along with a generous helping of wet ashes and a charred key chain that had half-melted in the heat of the fire. He had made an important discovery, he could feel it in his bones, and he smiled to himself as he slowly straightened himself up and welcomed the soft fall of rain on his face.

* * *

“There's been talk, you know. Rumours. I'm afraid you've joined the annals of Lonsdale's many illustrious graduates. Oh, I'm frightfully sorry. What I meant was ...”

Morse grimaced and watched as Allan busied himself by vigorously stirring his coffee. His own cup sat untouched on the table in front of him, and although Morse preferred coffee to tea he didn't much feel like indulging his host, who was currently in his study and taking Jakes through the particulars of his Jaguar's paperwork. The Mark II had only recently been to the garage for its yearly check-up. Crane's wife had been the one to make the report but the car belonged to her husband who would use it for short trips about town or to Reading and London. Morse remembered the man as somewhat of a motor aficionado. Back when he'd been up, Crane had driven a spacious Morris Isis from the between the Wars, an ancient and noisy beast of a saloon that had instilled fear and loathing in the hearts of many a Lonsdale porter. Morse had accompanied Crane on errands once or twice, and while he too had a soft spot for British craftsmanship, the moody, old Morris hadn't much impressed him. He wondered why Crane had sold it, and why he didn't seem overly concerned about the loss of his new Jaguar. Generous the earnings of an Oxford don might have been but certainly not bounteous enough to compensate for the loss of an extravagant car. 

“Alex was sure you'd joined the Foreign Legion. You know, Alex Reece? He's a don here now.”

“I know,” Morse replied, but there was nothing of Allan's awkward friendliness in his own face. He'd met Alex about a year ago, and he had then come to realise that he hadn't missed the trials and tribulations of college life at all. It was funny to think that once they had been his everything – until halfway through his third year he had met the girl of his dreams during an interval at the New Theatre. As for Allan Woodward, the youngest son of an unremarkable but well-off family from the suburbs of London, he and Morse had shared much of their passion for Latin and Greek (and a slightly pretentious love for the occasional French poem and bottle of wine) during their time as undergraduates. A Greats man himself, apparently Allan had done well for himself, and had taken his place as Hilary Crane's assistant.

“A detective though. I'd heard that supposedly there was one of us with the Oxford City Police but I'd thought it a joke, to be quite honest, one of Alex's many anecdotes. And you ...” Allan inclined his head, then he made as if to shake Morse's hand – an overexcited gesture that, due to Morse's own reserved demeanour, quickly turned into a shy smile that exposed a row of slightly crooked teeth. 

“Pagan, but I am terribly glad that you're all right.” Allan's eyes shone brightly and finally Morse found it in himself to answer his smile with an upward flicker of the corners of his mouth. Pagan, he remembered, but not particularly fondly, had been inflicted upon him after on one of his college applications he had given his faith as just that – pagan. Back then, he had thought himself very clever, and he had borne the name with gleeful pride. These days, his arrogance took different, less fanciful forms, but he felt humbled now as he once again crossed the boundaries into a life he had so readily forsaken all those years ago. 

“Actually, it's … Morse now. Just Morse,” he said, balancing his police-issue notepad on one of his knees. Allan's gaze followed the movement and his delight mellowed into understanding.

“Of course. I am sorry, Morse, I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of your colleague.”

“No harm done.” And at any rate, Jakes probably didn't know pagan from Padua. Still, he was secretly relieved that it wasn't him who was interviewing Crane. The old don had been overjoyed by his belated discovery and hadn't stopped talking about the good old days. It had been Allan who had coaxed his senior colleague into accepting a strong cup of tea and a seat behind his desk so that Jakes could ask him about his stolen Mark II. 

“When did the car go missing?” Morse asked. He knew it was a shot in the dark but perhaps, as Crane's assistant, Allan had seen or heard something that could help clear up this dreadful mess.

“Hilary's Jaguar?” The question took Allan by surprise. “Oh, I wouldn't know. But I drive him sometimes, you see.”

“You? Drive Crane?”

“Does that surprise you? I suppose he's lost some of his appetite for cars after he sold his precious Morris. He's ever so busy now. Rumour has it that once the current Master loses some of his bite ...”

Morse raised his eyebrows. To him Crane had never seemed the type, and it had always been quite apparent to him that the rest of Lonsdale had been inclined to agree. Crane simply wasn't one for politics or ceremony. Worse than that, in his mismatched tweed and worn-out shoes he didn't even look the part. 

“I know what you're thinking, Pagan.” Allan cringed apologetically. “Morse. But Hilary's really been involving himself in college life. And with Alex now in the picture we do have a strong case, you know?”

But Morse didn't know and preferred to keep it that way. College politics had never much appealed to him, and it didn't seem very likely that the demise of the Jaguar had anything to do with Oxford dons and their petty grudges. These honourable men could be callous and vindictive but hardly any of them were stupid enough to risk their precious careers for something as ignoble as murder. They liked to gossip and to scheme, and often enough their secrets helped obstruct the course of justice. Morse dearly hoped that neither Allan Woodward nor his former mentor subscribed to the same narrow point of view. 

“Out of curiosity, where were you and Dr Crane last night?”

“What an extraordinary question. We were here, until about 9. We were discussing notes on the Palaeographia Graeca. It's a-”

But Morse cut him of.

“I think I can remember the first complete history on Greek writing.”

“Of course.” Allan smiled not unkindly, and Morse was taken aback. So much time had passed that he had forgotten that he was sitting opposite someone who had once known him well enough to forgive him his abrasive nature. 

“And today?” he continued and pretended not to be fazed in the slightest. Thankfully, Allan did him the same courtesy. 

“At about 8 in the morning Hilary called me to say that he was staying in, and that his car was quite simply gone. So I joined him here and we organised his notes.”

“And the last time you saw the Jaguar?”

“Yesterday. Hilary took it to town and back. It was parked in front of the house, as usual.”

“From where it was stolen?”

Allan shrugged his shoulders and looked away, apparently unconcerned. 

“Presumably,” he said, and Morse felt that this was the extent of his knowledge. He dutifully noted down the gist of what Allan had just told him. His alibi made sense. If the car had been stolen in the early hours of the morning, it could have well been driven to Aristotle Lane and there been set aflame. That left the body, but Morse wasn't looking forward to mentioning that particularly gruesome detail. Fortunately, it had yet to be determined if the burnt-out wreck and Crane's stolen Jaguar were one and the same. Until then it was best to keep their findings from Crane and, consequently, Allan Woodward too.

In reality, of course, things were seldom as easy – especially not when it involved Oxford Gown. 

“You mentioned you were a detective. Aren't house visits like these above your station? Surely a uniformed constable would have sufficed?”

“Routine enquiries,” Morse replied. He didn't even have to lie, exactly. “Quite a few cars have been reported stolen in the past couple of weeks and the Constabulary wants us to keep an eye on things.”

Allan nodded. The answer seemed to have satisfied his own curiosity, and for a moment that was measured out carefully by the ticking of a richly decorated clock that sat amidst family portraits on the mantelpiece the two men sat in silence and drank their coffee. To Morse, there simply wasn't anything else left to say, and he wished that Jakes would conclude his own business with Crane so they could leave and his torment would find its temporary end. 

Oh, what a fool he was! He should have known by now that in a town that had made and then almost undone him he would never make his peace with the past.

“Listen, Morse. We were all very sorry to see you leave. I wish things back then had gone better for you.” Allan was watching him now. There was sympathy in his pale blue eyes, and something akin to pity that would have evoked Morse's anger if it hadn't been for what came next.

“Susie has left too, you know?”

But Morse couldn't answer. His thoughts were overwhelmed by the painful memory of the letter he had received one sunny April morning. It had been a farewell, regretful and sad, and it had unmade him so completely that everything beyond had lost all meaning. He hadn't kept it, of course, the letter. It, too, hadn't seemed important when he had quietly admitted defeat and packed his few belongings never – or so he had thought – to return. Even now it didn't occur to him to consider Allan's perspective. Susan's memory was all-encompassing, and his love blinded to the feelings of others. 

It was Jakes whose familiar voice pulled him back to 1966. Morse was only too glad of the distraction. With an awkward nod into Allan's general direction he rose from his armchair and, for all intents and purposes, fled back into the small vestibule, where Jakes was currently assuring Crane of keeping him in the picture. 

“Well then, no fancy theories?” he demanded when they had said their farewells and joined the afternoon traffic along the Banbury Road. Morse, who sat slumped in his seat and watched the overcast sky with disinterest, didn't see much sense in replying. It was quite clear from the way Jakes had spoken that he didn't expect much of an honest answer. And anyway, there was no theory to be had, not until they had determined the identity of the body in the car; not to mention the car's owner. 

As usual, Jakes was inclined to disagree.

“One of them could have done it though. Bump off the vic, report the car stolen and then get rid of both.”

Spurred on by the ridiculous implications Morse turned to look at him.

“You can't be serious,” he said with all the disbelief he could muster up after his close encounter with the past.

“Oh yeah?” Jakes shot back. Evidently, he was determined to stick up for himself, and his thick brows furrowed in anger as he as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Why is it when you do it you're suddenly Sherlock bloody Holmes, and when I trust my instincts I'm nothing more to you than a joke?”

Morse had to stop himself from throwing his hands up in defeat. He neither had time nor patience enough for petty-minded challenges that added nothing to their investigation.

“Because there's no evidence!” he argued, but Jakes ignored his reply in favour of another matter that must have bothered him ever since Crane had repeated the fateful line that had cost Morse all of his academic prospects. 

“And when were you going to mention that you know Crane?”

“I couldn't be sure if it was him,” Morse said softly, and Jakes shook his head.

“Some detective you are.” Then he smiled to himself. “Pagan.”

* * *

The White Horse wasn't much frequented during a weekday evening. With much of the College crowd preferring The Turf and the King's Arms to the small public house in Broad Street, the only guests tonight were a small congregation of scholars from the neighbouring Alfredus College and a chatty group of heavy smokers who had popped in for a couple of pints on their way home from work.

Strange and Morse were seated opposite the bar, where Morse alternately busied himself by frowning into his half-finished beer and eyeing the door suspiciously. They'd only exchanged a handful of words on their way from Cowley and now it looked as if Morse was determined to ruin what had looked to be a nice, relaxing evening out.

“If I'd known you'd be like that ...” Strange complained and leaned heavily on the small wooden table that carried their two jugs and an empty plate that had been entirely unburdened of the generous serving of steak and chips it had held not a quarter of an hour ago. 

“I told you I didn't feel like going.”

“That was before I offered to buy first round,” Strange said. He felt good about himself today, not only because the desk sergeant had commended him on a job well done. Anyone could have found the key that fit their Jaguar's door but the fact remained that it had been him who had proved to be thorough and determined enough to make the lucky discovery. He now carried himself with an unmistakable sense of pride, and not even Morse and his penchant for being an unsociable spoilsport could ruin his mood. 

It wasn't, Strange registered with a smirk, for lack of trying.

“You're welcome, by the way,” he said and was rewarded with a half-hearted scowl that reminded him of the fact that theirs was the most unlikeliest of friendships. What had started out as a convenient way to further his connections among the CID had quickly turned into something that Strange genuinely enjoyed. Morse's wit was quick and sharp, and although the didn't quite seem to grasp the fundamentals of drinking etiquette, keeping his company certainly wasn't unrewarding – or boring. The truth was that Jim Strange was friends with a lot of people these days, some of whom were influential, or good fun and useful to have around, but none of them could quite offer him what Morse shared with him so freely: a certain lack of pretence and an often shocking amount of the undiluted truth. There were no expectations, except for the kind that came with unattainably high ideals. Sometimes he wondered how Morse could stand it, to live in a world this black and white. Sometimes he also wondered whether he'd ever know him at all, and it made him sad to think that this brilliant man, who seemed to him so fragile and young despite only being about half a year his junior, didn't have anyone to fully understand him. Did Thursday ever share his worries, Strange asked himself as he watched Morse finish his pint in big, systematic gulps. The two men were undoubtedly very close, even though it seemed peculiar to him that an Inspector and a Constable could strike up a friendship. 

“Case like this and the old man nowhere nearby, eh?”

The way Morse looked up from his empty pint told him that he had struck a nerve. Strange had come to realise quite soon into their acquaintance that often there were moments in which he caught the other man unguarded, and his soulful eyes would do the talking for him until his sharp tongue would quench the need for further conversation.

“I'm sure Inspector Jakes will manage alright,” he now said but Strange didn't believe him for one second. 

“He's damn lucky you're not the one on furlough, matey.”

A weak smile reassured him that at least the thinly-veiled compliment hadn't entirely missed its mark. It seemed quite clear, however, that beyond the fact that he had to deal with both a particularly despicable crime and the antics of a colleague left unchecked by absent superiors there was something else that was weighing heavily on Morse.

“It's only two weeks though, isn't it? The whole thing can't be that open-and-shut, no matter how much Jakes wants it to be.”

But Morse, contemplating the few, sad drops of bitter left in his glass, softly shook his head.

“That's what I'm worried about.” Suddenly he perked up, and it was easy to see why. “Another?” he suggested and pointed at both of their empty jugs.

“Alright,” Strange agreed but as he was pushing his empty plate to one side he caught Morse feeling around the many pockets of his suit. He knew what was coming. It wasn't the first time his friend had feigned a monetary time-out.

“Only I seemed to have forgotten my … Strange, you wouldn't be opposed to ...”

But Strange had already made his way over to the bar.

* * *

Many people, most of whom had never ventured far into the belly of a hospital, thought of morgues as badly illuminated and eerie places that smelt faintly of death and offered fleeting glimpses into the ghastly world of penny dreadfuls. Nothing could have been further from the truth. No self-respecting pathologist worth his medical salt operated under such unscientific conditions. In order to shed light on how a person had found his or her permanent end one needed to be thorough and focussed. It simply wouldn't do to don a bloody apron and examine whatever poor bugger had found their way onto his autopsy table in a less than ideal environment. Dr Maximilian Theodore Siegfried DeBryn, Max to his friends, liked the quiet of an early morning. He also conducted most of his post mortems on his own or, if the need arose, in the company of men who, like him, preferred silence to idle chatter or the symphonic fancies of many a modern surgeon today. As exquisite the likes of Wagner and Puccini might have been, their masterpieces had little merit in a morgue. And anyway, Max supposed that few of his patients appreciated the musical distraction.

Now here was someone who would most definitely have cherished a bit of Wagner, but alas, Morse looked desperately out-of-place amidst the teal-coloured tiling of the room and the carefully arranged set of instruments and small bowls that currently lined one of the two autopsy tables. The place they had gathered around was covered by a simple light-grey cloth, yet the shape underneath was undeniably human. Both Morse and his colleague, Detective Sergeant-turned-Inspector Jakes, eyed the body nervously, and it was easy to guess why. Burn fatalities were ghastly to look at, and even those accustomed to staring death in the eye often found themselves taken aback by how flame could devastate the human body. Even now the faint smell of burning clung to the room. Max barely noticed the smell but he could see how it affected Jakes, whose complexion had visibly paled under the harsh light of the neon lamps above. Beside him Morse shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other, although Max suspected that his anxiety had more to do with a mild case of necrophobia. The young constable had reacted surprisingly well to the charred remains that had been found the previous morning, which to Max clearly pointed to the high probability that Morse wasn't so much afraid of dead things; it was the blood and gore and loss of life that deeply disturbed him – a common fear among civilians but quite an unfortunate trait in a policeman.

Well, there was nothing to be done about that now, and both Morse and Jakes held themselves admirably. Max wasn't gleeful. He knew that some of his colleagues subscribed to a certain amount of shock therapy, exposing their squeamish associates to the harsh realities of their job. Max himself wasn't opposed to a bit of good-natured teasing but he was very well aware that leaving someone retching into a dustbin didn't amount to much in the way of teamwork.

“Good morning, detectives. I'll spare you an encore of today's matinée and instead give you a summary of all the juicy bits about which you're undoubtedly very anxious to hear, shall I?” 

Across the table Jakes gave him a curt nod. He wasn't the chatty type during the best of times but now he seemed positively monosyllabic. Morse, meanwhile, appeared to be caught between wanting to leave this, in his eyes, less than cheerful place as soon as possible and expecting a good chunk of food for thought. The latter, at least, Max could deliver on.

“What we have here, gentlemen, is an as of yet not formally identified male in his healthy and youthful prime.”

“And?” Jakes cut in. Speaking up seemed to have put somewhat of a strain his composure, and he pressed his lips together in a thin and unforgiving-looking line as he waited for the pathologist to continue.

“Unfortunately the high temperatures have ravaged much of his physique, which is not uncommon in cases such as these. Bone cannot withstand fire very well. It's something that comes in handy during cremations, I suppose.”

It was Morse's turn to interrupt him.

“Is this what happened here?” his hands clasped behind his back, he nodded to where their corpus delicti lay hidden underneath a sterile hospital sheet.

“No, but the fire has made a fine job of destroying much of what we count as evidence. Exempli gratia, I counted several fractures of the skull, ribs and extremities. However, all but two without a doubt occurred posthumously.”

“So did he die in the fire or not?”

Max looked up from where he had pointed out each of the injuries.

“Let's put it this way, detective,” he said matter-of-factly and not much impressed by Jakes' lack of manners. “I'd be very surprised if this,“ he lifted the cover off the autopsy table and exposed the upper part of the burnt body, “was the result of partial incineration.”

The gesture, simple as it was, had an immediate effect on both Jakes and Morse. In their surprise they mirrored each other to an almost comical degree, but it was Morse, not Jakes, who recovered most of his dignity first.

“What exactly is it that we should be looking for?” he asked as calmly as possible, although he too avoided looking at where Max had arranged the body so that the front of its head was facing away from them.

“His cranium, or skull. Both the occipital and parts of the parietal bones have fractured under quite some force, driving bone fragments deep into the poor sod's brain.”

“This is what killed him?” Morse had finally risked a glimpse, and now his brow was furrowed as he stared intensely at nothing in particular. With the tips of his fingers he touched his chin, a telltale sign that something had enganged his keen intellect.

“Almost certainly. Death would have been instantaneous,” Max offered helpfully, and this seemed to have an invigorating effect on Jakes as well. Max watched as the detective shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his expensive suit. He looked vaguely ill but very much intrigued. 

“So he's been hit over the head before … you know.”

Max decided to ignore his lack of eloquence. Who knew what it was that Jakes was seeing when he made himself look bravely at what so obviously disturbed him. The sooner he brought his point across the better. Max remembered only too well when another detective, funnily enough in attendance right at this precise moment, had fainted during one of his autopsies. It had complicated matters immensely, especially when the promising, young constable in question had come to his senses on an autopsy table and had then turned an alarming shade of red. 

When Max looked at Morse now he saw in him far more than just a peculiar acquaintance. He occasionally worried about this intelligent young man who seemed to have a talent for getting himself into trouble, and who was already sporting the scars of not one but two injuries Max had had the displeasure to treat in his capacity not as a pathologist but as a concerned friend. 

“Difficult to say,” he said now. “The damage certainly is extensive but the severity of the burns have made it impossible to assess any possible tissue damage. A potential weapon would have been blunt and quite flat.”

Morse didn't miss a beat.

“Like a cricket bat or a paddle?” he speculated, but Max shook his head. Morse's theory might well have had some merit but as a respectable member of his profession he couldn't let it stand without voicing some reasonable doubt.

“Or he could have fallen and hit the back of his head. Like I said, the cause of the injury is difficult to determine. All that can be said with certainty is that the fracture of the cranium proved to be fatal, and that it occurred shortly, but not longer than twelve hours before the body was set aflame.”

Morse was clearly displeased with this answer but he caught himself quickly. 

“No clues as to his identity?”

“I've taken a dental impression, of course, but it will take some time to compare records. Until then, I'm afraid we must contend ourselves with another interesting titbit that should simplify matters tremendously.”

“Well, what is it?” Morse demanded, and in reply Max rounded the table and lifted the other end of the hospital sheet. 

“I want you to take a look at this.” Neither man was much enthused by the invitation. “Come now, don't be shy. I solemnly promise it's worth overcoming your profound malaise.”

They both shuffled closer. This time, it was Jakes who spoke first.

“His leg, it's crippled?”

“Malformed, yes. What seems to have happened here is that at one point during his early childhood our man has badly broken his right fibula and tibia.” Max pointed his finger to where he had opened the leg and laid bare a white and uneven shape. “Neither has healed very well, leading to a noticeable thickening of the bone and permanent damage to the surrounding muscle tissue. In other words, he would have favoured his left leg, perhaps even carried himself with a slight limp.”

Max was quite proud of his discovery but it had the exact opposite effect on Jakes, who stumbled backwards with a sudden, sharp intake of breath.

“Are you quite all right, Sergeant?” he asked, worried in earnest now for the well-being of his visitors.

But it wasn't him that Jakes addressed as he hurried out of the room.

“Morse, a word,” he gasped, and reluctantly Morse followed, leaving Max to wonder what exactly it was that had so greatly upset the man.

* * *

Jakes was waiting for him by the stairs. He was fumbling with his ever-present pack of cigarettes, and Morse expected to catch him off-guard. However, there was nothing of the near-panic Jakes had exhibited in the morgue. Instead, his colleague looked at him with a grim expression on his face. Colour had risen to his cheeks, and it gave him an exalted and intense appearance that made Morse forget some of his own irritation.

“What was that all about?” he asked, not much caring whether he didn't exactly come off as overly concerned. It had been Jakes, after all, who had ended their appointment with Dr DeBryn so abruptly. For all he knew they could have temporarily foregone any number of clues vital to their investigation. 

Jakes merely shook his head. 

“Listen,” he said in an ominous tone of voice. Intrigued by his strange behaviour Morse tilted his head to one side. “There's a missing person's just come in this morning. Stephen Crayworth, 22, Oxford boy, your sort.”

Morse frowned at the choice of words. Was he to take the last part of Jakes' statment as an insult or a thinly-veiled allusion to his failed degree? He opened his mouth to protest but the other man cut him off.

“Thing is, I know him.”

It was the last thing Morse would have expected him to say.


End file.
